


don't let the darkness of day in

by extremiss



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: (hinted established tho), Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Past and Present, Realization, probably inconsistent with source material im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 14:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4104856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extremiss/pseuds/extremiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His life began the moment he met Sinbad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't let the darkness of day in

**Author's Note:**

> trying to cure my writer's block w word vomits HAHA im sorry there isn't real dialogue in this
> 
> btw the title is from lullaby by ok go!!!

His life began the moment he met Sinbad.

And he—Ja’far —hated him.

At least he thought he did.

He didn’t have the capability to love nor hate; just as he wouldn’t be able to fathom wants, only necessities.

For the first time in his life, as the edge of his blade hazardously grazes the underside of Sinbad’s chin, he had already foretold he wouldn’t ever be strong enough to kill his target. He had already failed in those short seconds, and he hated that. Hated _him_ the most.

Yet as Ja’far started to unlearn his previous cold-blooded, purposeless way of living, he realized that it wasn’t hatred. It was the feeling of being reborn, almost, if he was being melodramatic.

Finally, much like a kid like him should often feel, he felt powerless. If he had fled that day wielding this new epiphany back either into the real world or back into his old harsh one, he would remain lost until death would come and take him like he had deserved all along.

Sinbad doesn’t let that happen. Not even if Ja’far would opt for it.

Some days he takes Ja’far’s hand in his own, and Ja’far feels _small_. He might even be hesitant; not that he wants to admit it.

He looks at Sinbad’s face, and watches as the number of new, distinct, _accepting_ faces rise all around him in no time. They promise him of home. A concept of which Ja’far is not familiar with.

Home is not four walls and a roof. No, it’s the endless color of deep purple. Byzantine-dyed garments around the chest and back, and shades and shades of the color flowing with the wind by the sun, and the stars in the eve.

It’s the brown in eyes that remind of him of tree trunks and earth. The eyes that seem to either know everything or nothing at all and crinkle upon the boom of his boisterous laughter. It’s that gentlest touch from the strongest hands.

He was contradictory, but he made Ja’far believe in home. He is frivolous and he’s an unsalvageable bonehead when he doesn’t think he needs to be intelligent at the moment, but he is sincere.

Ja’far decided he hated men like Sinbad the most.

 

* * *

 

Ja’far never became a foolish optimist, but he became a master of diplomacy and good manners— two of the things Sinbad isn’t all that good at, and this is only one of the hundreds of reasons why Sinbad needs Ja’far. He starts to feel like a glorified babysitter. It’s regrettable that a _king_ of all people should need such looking after in matters unrelated to battle, but Ja’far is only thankful he could remain by his side.

His hatred for him was always too weak, anyway. Like it was a slow-fire and the latter days of his youth had made sure to extinguish it completely and absolutely. By the time his heart had decided he loved him instead, he lets his heart convince the rest of his body to believe it.

Ja’far was good at compartmentalizing, although. It’s a trait he kept stowed in him. He was good at hiding things about himself that would only trouble the people he works with. No one would be able to tell he loved Sinbad just like no one could tell he had a past life prior Sindria.

Now, of course, the nightmares still come once in a while.

He doesn’t know when they will. He finds that he doesn’t care all too much — he wouldn’t be bothered from his work either way. In fact, it’s work that consumes him in its place. Ja’far overworks himself, tires his eyes and induces headaches for himself on his own all the time. It isn’t new.

On the days they _do_ come, he is alone. His window is left open, making it easy for the wind to blast into his room as he curls up, wrapped in his sheets. He’s gradually running out of breath as he falls deeper into his sleep, eyes squeezed shut, clawing for anything to keep him grounded.

He needs to delineate what is his reality and what isn’t, and when the image of blood in his nails and the sound of a screech overruns his consciousness behind closed eyelids —

Sinbad is there.

His chest is to Ja’far’s back, an arm lightly circling his trembling waist. “Shhh,” says Sinbad, “it’s okay.”

His lips are then pressing kisses onto his forehead, down to the tip of his nose, and to the cluster of freckles on his cheeks. His fingers are brushing through soft hair strands filled in with a white that resembled the glow of the moon. Thanks to this, Ja’far’s heartbeats regain a calm tempo.

He, half-asleep, asks Sinbad to stay in the form of a quiet mumble and a tug of his sleeve. Sinbad only smiles warmly, even though Ja’far’s lidded eyes that are worn out from reading and writing can’t see, because by now, Ja’far should know that’s a given.

Right before Ja’far tumbles back into the chasm of sweet slumber, he hears Sinbad’s voice say, “I love you.”

And he believes that, too.


End file.
